


In The Dark

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-13
Updated: 2005-11-13
Packaged: 2018-10-27 01:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10798716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: In the dark they still have their secrets





	In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Ginny Weasley knows that what they do cannot be called, ‘making love.’ The flowery term, reminiscent of romance novels and heartfelt admissions, cannot apply to what they do on warm summer nights such as these. There are no sweet touches or whispered words, no loving embraces or passionate gazes. There is just heat, lust, desperation. 

Their first kiss, all those years ago, was one of innocence, full of dreams and wishes as far as the eye could see. But their mouths mate now in a fury of lips, teeth, and tongue. He presses her against the wall of the closet he has snatched her into, away from the others roaming the crowded Burrow. There’s to be another wedding in the family, happiness and hope saturating the mood so heavily that Ginny chokes on its perfume. He can’t stand it either, she can tell, and what they are doing right now is just the smallest act of rebellion in its dirtiness, its darkness. 

“Harry,” she moans, and for once his name on her lips is not a prayer. It is condemnation, and he often hisses when she lets it slip. They do not acknowledge what they are doing, or that they are doing it with each other. Nameless, faceless, as much as they can be, joined as they are in the musty recesses of this linen closet. They are Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley mostly, but on these nights they are two desperate lovers yearning to feel. 

Perhaps it is because everyone expects them to find happiness together that they cannot. During the day, they treat each other with friendly indifference. They date other people; they never stay in the same room alone for long. But at night, they warm each other’s beds, ravaged by emotions they will not let themselves feel otherwise. Under the shadows of the darkness, they hide their fears and regrets and do their best to free each other. 

It always starts the same way, and tonight is no different. They carefully avoid each other’s eyes for most of the party. Ron and Hermione are laughing with an abandon that will never be hers, and the old pain rises up within her. Ginny looks up and boldly catches his eye. One glance to the closet and then one glance down, and he understands. Later, she departs for the loo. He follows undetected. His hands grip her arm as they pull her into the cool shell of the quiet, linen-filled closet and the lights go out as his mouth eats hungrily at hers. 

His fingers are reaching down to slip under her skirt, callused and warm as they lightly trace over her knickers. Ginny lets loose a breath against his neck and whimpers as he teases, rubbing slowly over the cloth. She knows that when it really starts, when they really go at it, it will be rough and needy. This is the prelude that she just barely lets herself enjoy. The low keening sound is just starting at the back of her throat as he increases the speed of his ministrations. She bites her lip and arches into Harry’s hand, and he obliges, slipping his fingers past the elastic band and delving deep. 

“You’re wet for me,” he whispers in a rough growl. 

“Always,” she whispers back, and it’s the closest to a promise that they’ll ever get. 

Sometimes when he is touching her like this, all their clothes still on and defences still deep, Ginny wonders if he even realizes how gentle he is being. She’s gotten quite used to the anger and grief since his defeat of Voldemort, knowing the helplessness and inability to let go of the past. But as his fingers leave hot trails scorching down her thighs and arse, she thinks she can feel a bit of her own coldness thaw in the face of his heat, and it scares her. Anger, she knows how to handle. But love? The possibility of happiness has been so far-removed for so long, Ginny cannot bear to think it may be so near as the whisper-light touches against her skin. 

But it’s not love she should be thinking of yet, not with Harry’s fingers drawing relentless circles around her clit, his hot breath in her ear, his hair cool and soft beneath her touch. His other hand is reaching up to unbutton her blouse, and cold air raises goosebumps on her skin as the garment falls to her feet. Harry is unclasping her brassiere then, nipping it with his teeth, a trick that means he needs this particularly badly tonight. His mouth closes on a nipple, hot and wet, tongue circling the pink bud, and she feels that familiar squirming in her centre. And still his fingers work, building up that tight, itchy sensation beneath her skin, the heavy ache of arousal settling deep in the pit of her stomach. When she comes, her muscles clench around his fingers. Her legs tremble from the force of white heat that is spreading through her, but still she holds tight, her fingers curling around his shoulders, thighs clamped shut on his hand. 

She can’t bring herself to let him go in the only moments that she has him so completely. He seems to understand, for he moves his hand from the warm cradle of her legs only to slide up and entangle his fingers through her hair. Then his mouth is a hot stamp on her throat, on her breastbone, on her stomach, on her— 

His fingers drift down to follow his mouth and he pauses for a moment before Ginny is free-falling into depths unknown. 

Her head knocks back against the wall and her hips arch up, and every tear, every ache in her heart is awakening from its slumber and unwinding. This is why nights like these are so dangerous: for every word unspoken, there is a secret pain to go along with it, and as the pleasure builds, the net she has cast over her heart loosens and falls. Every time, she comes close to sobbing as he tastes her, touches her, brands her. He knows this. As she arches up one final time, her eyes fluttering shut and breath coming in quick, frantic gasps, he turns his head to one side and sucks hard on the inside of her thighs. This is her undoing; a shudder runs through her as she finally comes in a bright explosion of heat. 

There will be a mark tomorrow. 

That is all that is left after their interludes. In the morning when they both wake up in different beds, tired and empty again, they search their bodies and they find a bruise, teeth marks, a small red imprint. It is the only reminder that these nights happen, and Ginny unbuttons Harry’s shirt, sucking at the pale, marble skin revealed to her before closing her teeth over his shoulder and biting. She will not begrudge herself this opportunity to imbed a bit of herself in the boy she has loved since she was ten. 

Tonight, Harry is especially frantic. He only gives a low growl as Ginny tries to repay the favour he has so heatedly given her, rubbing his burgeoning erection through the thick denim of his jeans. His hips buck and then he is catching her wrists and pinning them behind her, unzipping himself with his other hand. Ginny resigns herself to the knowledge that tonight is almost done. Despite the cold air, her body has heated up so unbearably that sweat saturates her hair and she is stiflingly hot. She longs for a window, for the comforts of easy lovemaking—small comforts—a fan, a window open, a bed with cool sheets. But this is _sex_ , not lovemaking, and when she whispers that she is hot, Harry whispers back the words for a Cooling charm before thrusting into her. 

Like always, he fills her like nothing ever has. Like always, the sound of skin hitting skin and his quickening of breath drifts in her ears, a rhythm that somehow her own heart starts to beat to. And like always, he starts at a maddeningly easy pace, a slow burn until she is gasping and moaning and twining her fingers through his hair, her skirt still on, his jeans caught around his knees. Usually he chooses this point, when her gasps begin to become louder in volume, to increase the pace of his thrusts, to drive forth deep and hard until he reaches that high, sometimes bringing Ginny with him, sometimes not. And usually at this point, their clothes become a nuisance far more than a kink, but never have either of them offer to remove the last garments. Being naked literally is too close to how they each feel emotionally, and if there is one thing they don’t bring into this, it is emotion. 

Usually. 

Tonight, Harry’s fingers strum her like some sort of exquisite instrument as she begs him to speed up, to go harder, faster. Tonight, he slowly undoes the tie of her skirt and lets it fall, leaving her, for the first time in his eyes, gloriously nude. And then his shirt is being shrugged off, and he pauses to kick away his jeans, but in a moment he is rejoined with her, pulling her closer and gently sliding in, his breath tickling the skin between her neck and collarbone. The closet is too dim to see anything, but the fact remains that Ginny can feel skin to skin everywhere, and it’s just a little bit more than last time, and it’s _something_. He is still stroking into her, hot and slow and so _good_ , and she feels the tingling, the sobbing start again. He is reaching down between them to touch her, to help her reach the same point he is aspiring to, and the gesture, so different to what she is used to having, snaps something inside. As she clenches around him and he throws his head back in wordless pleasure, Ginny sobs his name. 

“Harry. Oh, god. Harry.” 

She is collapsing against him, and she knows he won’t hold her, won’t acknowledge their need for each other, won’t let go. But she cannot help herself. And then trembling hands reach up to stroke her hair out of her face, to hold her up against his chest. And he whispers, “Ginny.” 

Silence reigns for a long moment before he slips out of her and wordlessly hands her the discarded items of clothing littering the floor beneath them. 

As they dress, avoiding each other’s eyes and fearing the shadows that have been threatened under a terrifying new light, Ginny cannot help but think. 

They have lived their lives bound by fear of feeling, but in each other’s pain, they are free. What they have is not beautiful, perhaps, but it is something. 

And it is real. 

* * * 


End file.
